


Paenitentia

by vivianne_leigh



Category: BioShock, BioShock Infinite
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Backstory, Child Abandonment, Drinking to Cope, Gen, Poor Life Choices, Pre-Canon, Scarification, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 04:12:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11200197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivianne_leigh/pseuds/vivianne_leigh
Summary: Amidst a haze of booze and self-hatred, Booker DeWitt makes a less then brilliant descision.





	Paenitentia

He’s drunk. 

 

It's 2:30 on a Thursday afternoon and Booker DeWitt is really,  _ really  _ drunk. He’s straddling the border between incoherent and blacked out, enough that the shapes of the room are blurring in and out of definition. For a moment he almost forgets why he's being so sloppy- letting himself get shitfaced in the middle of the  **week** _ ,  _ for god's’ sake- but then he catches sight of the door leading to Anna's room and his heart  _ squeezes,  _ painful enough that his hands clutch the booze in front of him like a man drowning. 

 

Oh. Right. 

 

Tearing his gaze away from the door, he forces himself to focus on the rest of the room. The wallpaper was falling off in curls, the floors were scuffed, and the furniture sagged miserably. Hopelessly moth eaten curtains completed the scene, while dust motes twirled slowly like dirty snowflakes. All in all, a fitting backdrop to his mood. 

_ “ _ Amen to that _ ,”  _ he muttered to himself, knocking the dregs of the bottle back with a speed that would make a lesser man (or maybe a better one) cringe. Suddenly drained, he slouched over the battered desk and rested his forehead on the cool wood, wincing as the action blew his own whiskey-curdled breath in his face. 

 

_ A-fucking-men.  _

 

With that, he succumbed to the blackness blotting the edges of his vision and let his eyes drift shut.

 

* * *

 

 

When he awoke the sun had abandoned its post directly outside his window and was sidling, almost guiltily, towards the horizon. The sky turned a dark orange as it went, signaling another day gone. 

 

Something like bitter satisfaction coiled in his chest, barely enough to nudge his lips into a tired smirk. Another day he didn't want to -and now couldn't- remember. The mood only lasted a moment, however, before the guilt crashed down on him again, so heavy he felt his shoulders ache with the burden. Against his will, against the muddying effect of the alcohol, against the repression of his memories he saw _her_ eyes- a crystalline blue, so wide and _trusting_ a twinge of literal pain cut through him, sharp enough to make him grit his teeth. Is this what Annabelle would have wanted? For him to burn out his liver? To _sell_ their _baby_?  He hadn't even _tried_ to be a  father, not even- 

 

An awful thought seized him, pouncing on him so unexpectedly he almost recoiled. 

 

He had forgotten his daughter’s name. 

 

In a panic, Booker jolted upright from the desk and stumbled backwards, knocking over the cheap chair as he furiously dug his fingers into his temples, trying to force himself into remembering. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out the sound of his panicked breathing filling the room. 

 

_ What was it? What was it what was it what was it what was it what was it what was it what was it what was it what was it what was it what was it what was it what was it  _

 

_ It was- Wasn't it- _

 

**Anna** _. _

 

The name crashed over him like a wave, knocking him breathless and dragging him to his knees. He was so relieved he stayed there, kneeling beside the desk, trying to regulate his breathing as the combination of alcohol and adrenaline battled inside him. 

Out of everything, the name of that child was the last thing he wanted to forget. 

 

There had to be a way for him to remember- a tattoo, maybe? The idea seemed decent enough, until he remembered the tattooists’ obscene prices and the fact that he probably only had about two dollars to his name- at best. 

 

Frustrated, he pounded the desk. Something in him refused to let it go- be it the specter of guilt or the booze flooding his veins- until, finally, his old army switchblade came to mind. Yanking open the rickety drawer on his desk, he couldn't help but notice the way the weapon wickedly gleamed in the low light, appearing happy to see him. Before common sense could stop him, he grabbed a rag and dropped back into the chair, jaw tight. 

 

For a while, there was a sound like the slicing of flesh, and weeping.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Booker came to with the hardwood of his desk against his front and the midday sun sizzling against his back. His hand throbbed in time with his heart, and when he unstuck his cheek from the table, his stomach flipped with a first notes of a hangover. 

 

A filthy rag, soaked with equal parts blood and liquor was draped over his sore hand; before he dared take it off to assess the damage he gave a huge inhale and held it, ripping the tattered cloth away like peeling a bandage. Though he expected it, his heart still lurched at the sight- the simple initials hurt like a punch to the gut.

 

_ AD _ , his hand screamed, visible even as he flexed and stretched the skin.  _ Anna DeWitt _ .

 

Sinking back onto the table, Booker closed his eyes and wondered how long it would be before it all hurt less.


End file.
